Fear Her
by Juliette Louise
Summary: The world of man has fallen to Silverlance and the Golden Army.  Liodain, once gutter-trash in the depths of the human world, rises to the role of Tactician, at the right hand of Nuada himself.
1. Surveyor of the Dead

**Be warned, this story is a hard "R" rated story. It contains (in order of prevalence) violence, sex, and swearing. All of my Nuada stories assume that Nuala did not suicide, and Nuada and the Golden Army made war upon men. Consider it about 50 years post-Hellboy 2.**

**This is a companion-piece to a very graphic Nuada story called "Fear Me". If "Fear Her", is about war, "Fear Me" is about sex. **

_

* * *

__At the feast of Samhain, the King of the High Fae was walking by the banks of the River Unius when he saw a warrior woman cleaning her bloody sword and lance. It was the Morrigan, the goddess of war, who could assume the guise of a raven and who watched over the battlefield, turning the tide of war toward that of the Champion she favored. _

_Black-haired, whip-tongued Morrigan was charmed by the young King with his hair like spun gold and gentle ways. They made love by the river, and hunted fallow deer in the forest. In time she bore him twins, both as pale and beautiful as himself, but their time together had already run short. The world of the Fae was then as peaceful as the surface of calm water, and the black goddess' only dominion was war._

_Morrigan was indeed a fickle mistress whose favor was as easily lost as won, but she left the King with a prophecy: The world of the Fae will turn over in blood and iron and dispair. The Unseen will rally under the banner of a new Champion, and a pale lady, the Tactician, will be his right hand._

-Second book of Tuatha De, lost Elvish text

* * *

The battle was won already when Liodain was permitted out onto the field. The warriors went ahead to camp while the young men and herself fanned out over the sea of human bodies. Her sword was quickly coated in sticky black blood from dispatching still-living enemy combatants. Their own kind never lingered long.

As the night drug on the smell increased exponentially. Most of the pages quit in disgust, heading off towards the distant camp where the warriors were most likely already asleep, spent from more than a day of hard combat. Finally, as the sun rose, she was alone.

Liodain stripped off her gloves, knee deep in the dead, pulling sweaty hair away from her neck. She had been awake at dawn when the first soldiers washed their faces in the stream and pulled on cold silver armor, muttering prayers to the old gods almost lost-but she would not quit the field until the task was completed.

No one had expected this engagement would end so soon, but needless to say they were pleased. Humans had been massing in what had once been Roscommon county, south of Bethmoora, preparing to strike at the heart of the Unseen. Silverlance had come back from across the island to lead the army personally. A brilliant tactician and unparalleled warrior, his presence had rallied the tired men, and the battle had ended in resounding success.

Liodain's joy was muted by fatigue that seemed to seep into her very bones. Her armor weighed her down, her helmet restricted her vision, but she did not remove them. A soldier was never unarmored on the battlefield.

She had ended at least a hundred suffering men-once terrifying, now deserving of only pity, made low by the might of the risen Unseen armies-when the humans fell on her.

She heard them before she saw them, thundering through the trees like boars, but there was no time for anything but to draw her second sword. Liodain's sight was superior and she was quicker than them, sliding under their blows, adrenaline flooding her heavy limbs, fear sharpening her tired mind.

There were at least ten of them. Their rusty blades cut deeply into her flesh but she didn't feel the white-hot tang of iron. Her own swords tasted plenty of human blood, her pulse deafening in her own ears.

These men were unmistakably advance scouts. The moment she saw them everything became clear. They'd thrown some portion of their army at the Unseen-just enough to seem plausible, to tire them-so that when the burning sun rose and they were in their beds…

A black-haired human put a few rounds from a battered service revolver into her before she cut him down, ending their clumsy surprise attack. Standing over him, rust-colored blood running in rivulets from iron-tinged wounds, she promised him a quick death for confirmation of her theory.

"You'll die before you can warn your army, stupid bitch." He said, before she ended him as she'd ended so many of his comrades that night.

The rising sun prickled at the back of her exposed neck, burning the portions of her back that were uncovered by armor. Liodain sheathed short-swords made slick with her own blood and that of her enemies. Then, already feeling darkness and silence grasping at her, she ran.

* * *

Like most, she had been motherless: delicate elven women were not well-suited to the world of men. The chemical-ridden food and the acrid, smoky air and the polluted water ruined most of them before they were even grown. Liodain's mother was only a girl herself when she'd birthed her, and succumbed soon after. Her father followed shortly, destroyed by grief.

For years she scavenged, picking through the enormous piles of garbage the world of men left in its wake and stealing what she couldn't find in refuse. When she was old enough, she did odd jobs for trolls and other denizens of the underworld-cooking, cleaning, caring for children.

When the Golden Army was summoned from their long sleep, she was barely grown. Liodain knew nothing of war, but quickly joined the rising tide of resistance. Even the court of the now-deceased King Balor fell into step behind the fearless Nuada. The elves and their kin rose as one to burn the earth clean.

Long years passed. She moved between camps, catching instruction when she could, caring for the wounded, burning the dead. Elven women were not warriors as they once had been. Considered too precious to waste on the battlefield, Liodain was treated with a mixture of caution and disdain. Sometimes a sympathetic soldier would teach her some of the old art, but mostly she contented herself with the work of the pages: dressing wounds, repairing armor, dispatching the lingering humans on the field after a battle.

* * *

Liodain got a hand under her breastplate, putting pressure on a wound her armor hadn't saved her from. She concentrated on the rhythmic pounding of her feet on the soft earth. The sun was almost blinding. Sweat stung her eyes. And yet, ahead, the white tents of the camp were just visible on the edge of the woods.

Iron sung through her veins, turning gold-colored blood brown and sticky before it even fell from her body. Her vision was starting to dim, but somehow her legs continued to pump, her feet moving her to the command tents.

One structure was larger than the others, closest to the woods. She had never before even dreamt of approaching it-inside, Silverlance slumbered-but if she didn't alert him their revolution was dead.

"Sire! Sire!" She said finally, her voice breaking. The roaring in her ears was threatening to overtake her. One leg buckled, then the other, and she went down on her knees. Agonizing moments passed, while her life leaked out onto the ground that had drank so much of their blood already.

Finally, the tent flap moved, and Prince Nuada himself emerged. Time seemed to slow. His white-gold hair was loose, flowing past his bare shoulders. He was wearing only linen trousers, and myriad scars stood out on his pale chest and broad shoulders. Eyes the color of Baltic amber settled on her, and he was in motion.

"My Liege." She gasped, pulling her heavy helmet off.

Silverlance was instantly at her side, one cold hand closing around her wrist. The world shifted suddenly, and she was in his arms. He smelled like dry leaves and night.

"A second army. Larger. Moving toward us from the west. This battle-a trap. They hope to overtake us while we sleep. Caught a scouting party on the field." Liodain said.

With every breath she was misting him with blood. Some landed on his face but he made no movement to wipe it away.

The Prince's eyes flickered over her, his breath coming quick through parted lips. Then he turned to the generals who were just now coming to his side, speaking rapidly in the old tongue, and she saw no more.


	2. Sentinel

Liodain dreamt of war. Of an endless sea of men and their machines, meeting the remnants of the Unseen Empire. Everywhere, she heard the sounds of metal meeting flesh, the screaming of men's artillery rounds as they cut wounds in the soft earth. She dreamed she saw Nuada Silverlance, his armor shining, his sword and lance glinting in the light.

She woke gradually to pitch, suffocating blackness, in intense pain. Liodain tried to sit up but couldn't-her ribs felt like they were on fire, her head stuffed with cotton-wool.

She was enveloped in soft furs, and distantly she could hear the wind and the chirping of crickets, but the moon and stars were missing.

All around her was the faint scent of spice and smoke, a heady mixture she associated strongly with the fiery Eire autumn. But that scent was familiar in a different way, also, something more immediate that she couldn't place, but seemed important. Dry leaves and cold air…

Liodain spent long moments in disoriented silence before she heard footsteps approaching. There was movement, and for a brief moment she saw the bright stars beyond a dark figure, and the tent's curtain closed again.

There was the sharp sound of a match being struck, and the flame of a candle suddenly displaced the darkness. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and she saw an elven man. They were indeed in a tent, but it was certainly not hers: it was far too big. Big enough that he was standing upright inside it, next to her prone form.

The man's hair was short-cropped and shock white with age, and his face had a weathered, well-scrubbed look. He didn't wear the tunic and trousers of a warrior, but the long scarlet robes of the scholar. When he saw her he smiled, and sighed in seeming relief.

"Ah. My lady." He gave her a tiny, polite bow. "I am Gwydion, the Prince's personal physician."

The sound of another's voice shocked Liodain back to her senses.

"Goddess!" She exclaimed, while all the memories of the day returned with the sudden ferocity of a thunderclap. "The battle! What of the battle?"

Gwydion bowed again.

"The battle is won, Lady. Runners just reached us moments ago. A victory more stunning than the last. Now drink this-for your wounds."

The doctor sat by the edge of the cot, propping her up carefully and handing her with a small ceramic cup. She downed the sickly-sweet contents in a single gulp.

The doctor let her lie back again. The fluid burned down her throat but when it hit her stomach the pain almost immediately began to recede. Warm darkness was grasping at her again. It was difficult to focus suddenly. Liodain's eyes slid closed, then opened again abruptly.

"The _Prince's_ physician?" She gasped.

Gwydion pulled up the long tunic gently, inspecting her bruised ribs. She was distantly aware that her wounds had been cleansed and bandaged in cloth, and her bloodied cotton garments replaced by a silk tunic. Above her, Gwydion smiled.

"Yes indeed. I was dosing off when I heard the commotion. I emerged from my tent just in time to see you nearly bleed out all over our commander. I understand we owe you our victory."

Liodain was speechless, but did let out a hiss when Gwydion put gentle pressure around the wound on her hip. He replaced her tunic, and the bedclothes.

"At least all that bleeding cleaned the iron from your wounds. Overall, thought, I'm a little shocked that you lived. Silverlance will be pleased."

"_Silverlance?" _She said breathlessly. Herself a mere page, and suddenly of import to the Prince himself? Yesterday she'd been dispatching the dead after the warriors quit the field, and now..?

Gwydion chuckled softly.

"Rest now. All can wait until you have slept." He said, and pinched out the candle.

* * *

Liodain fell into a bottomless sleep. She drifted, dreamless, until a familiar sound startled her awake again. From across the moors: boots on soft grass and the sharp sound of metal armor and men's voices. Her legs felt like lead, but she still managed to go to the flap of the tent and pull it back.

Beyond, the army of the Unseen was returning. The half-moon illuminated their silver armor and golden hair and ivory skin. Their weapons were sheathed, their upturned faces clean and unmarred.

At their head was Silverlance. She could see him even from the distance: he was taller than most, and the royal seal on his armor reflected the wane light like a coin in the sun. He looked tired but resolute, drenched in sweat and vibrant blood but unhurt. He was straight-backed and proud, regal without any pretense. Two days and nights of hard combat had not dimmed his presence.

Abruptly, the camp came alive. Pages and medics emerged, fires were lit. The men dispersed into the little settlement and suddenly there were voices all around. She lost sight of the Prince somewhere, but it didn't matter. He lived, and so did their cause.

Liodain slipped unnoticed through the night, though the groups of tired warriors and pages fetching water and cleaning armor. The tunic she wore was oversized enough to be modest even though she had no trousers, but she'd forgotten to find her boots. She distantly felt wet grass and cold stones under her feet, but she was unconcerned.

At last she found her tent and crawled inside, listening to the quiet sounds of a long battle won: men uttering soft prayers to the gods, washing their hands and faces, and finally going to rest. Soon only the chirping of insects and the crackling fires could be heard.

Liodain drifted, but she could still perceive distantly the sweet smells of autumn that had permeated the bed she'd left behind, and the beautiful silk tunic she still wore. Then it occurred to her where she'd first smelled that scent of spice and smoke: it had been in Silverlance's arms.

* * *

Nuada finally returned to his tent, bone-tired, every muscle screaming. He was drenched to the skin in sweat and blood and a few other things he didn't care to identify.

Inside there was a candle already lit, and his eyes quickly took in the features of his current home. There was a wooden chest for clothes and another for arms and armor. A tapestry on one wall with his family crest was the only concession to his status. Gwydion stood silently to one side, arms crossed. Nuada saw the somber look on his face, then his eyes fell on the empty bed and stayed there.

He exhaled sharply, pulling off his helm and dropping it.

"Dead?" He asked calmly, his eyes shifting to the doctor.

"Oh no, the girl lives!" Gwydion said, blinking. "I cut four bullets out of her and she bled the other wounds clean. Remarkable!"

Nuada stared back at him uncomprehendingly. The small part of his battered psyche that still functioned was grateful that she'd lived. He'd put the thought of her out of his mind during the battle as best he could, but it had been a struggle. It was never pleasant for a woman to die in your arms, and it was the sort of unpleasant feeling that lingered.

Gwydion pursed his lips. He knew what he was thinking.

"She's alive, but I'm not sure where she's gone to. I gave her a tincture for pain, and she was sleeping when I left."

Nuada's numb fingers successfully undid the buckles of his breastplate, and it fell, landing with a hollow sound on the ground.

"What was her name?" He said, stripping off his tunic and sitting to untie his boots.

"Hmm." Gwydion said. "I don't know. You'll have to ask her yourself. If you can find her."

"I'll find her." Nuada said, stretching out on his cot. It could have been his imagination, but he thought it still felt warm.

"After I sleep for about four days." He added, then set to doing just that.


	3. A Meeting of Minds

Nights passed in relative tedium. Spies and scouts were sent out in all directions to search for holdouts, but it seemed that the last conflict had cleared out all the human stragglers.

Liodain had spent much of the last two nights in her tent, breaking only to scrounge up food. On the third night she finally limped off to the stream, unwinding the cotton cloth on her wounds and washing them and herself carefully.

When she returned to her tent to light a fire, a warrior in full armor was already there.

"My Lady!" He said, giving her a tiny bow.

Liodain froze, in nothing but an undershirt and leggings, her wet hair dripping down her back. Soldiers rarely noted her presence at all, and it was unheard of for one to show deference to the camp's support staff. Clerics and pages and medics served the warriors, warriors served officers, officers served generals, generals served the Silverlance.

"Was it you who spoke to the Prince two days ago, warning him of the trap set for us?" He asked, though she could tell from his meekness that he already knew the answer. As far as she had ever known, she was the only young woman in the camp.

Liodain straightened up, ignoring the pain in her side.

"It was." She said.

* * *

Nuada knew the moon was high in the sky, a sliver against the pitch-colored night. The stars shown brilliantly without the electric lights of men's cities to obscure them. Perhaps someday, the air would even cease to smell like acrid coal-smoke and exhaust.

He couldn't see the stars at the moment, however, because he was in the command tent surrounded by generals, pouring over a detailed map of Bethmoora's countryside. Candles cast shuddering light into even the darkest recesses of the large tent. Eight men were gathered around the circular table, where they'd been discussing strategy since nightfall. Though they'd only just won a major battle, there were always more to come. And would be, for the foreseeable future.

Outside, someone cleared their throat, and a hush fell over the men.

"Sire! Please forgive the intrusion. I have found the page." A young, rather nervous-sounding voice, said.

Nuada turned to face the door.

"Send her in." He said.

A small hand drew back the curtain, and a woman entered.

She was very small-boned and delicate of build, even by the standards of the Fae, with long white-gold hair that was still wet from the stream. She wore over-large men's armor, but with gravitas and dignity.

In truth he barely recognized her. When she'd stumbled back into the camp half-dead two days ago, she'd been so covered in blood and filth that he'd barely been able to tell what she looked like. She had the delicate facial features and pale hair of an Eirean-born Fae, probably descended from a Bethmooran House, albeit distantly.

The girl seemed frozen at the threshold of the tent, her eyes on the ground, breathing heavily through parted lips. She was obviously terrified.

"My Lady." Nuada said firmly. "Please enter and be at ease."

There was a quiet rumble of confusion from the seven generals, that he silenced effectively with a disapproving glace.

She took a step forward and tried to go down on one knee, but Nuada put a hand on her arm. She looked up into his eyes for the first time that night, clearly unsure what was expected of her in his presence.

"Please. You are here because I wish to thank you, and commend you for your service to your people. I, and my army, are in your debt."

He could feel seven sets of eyes on his back. He had perhaps neglected to mention that the page who'd nearly died to deliver the critical information was female. It had honestly slipped his mind. He was old enough to remember a time when women served beside men in the Fae armies, while for much of these men's lives women had been too rare to fight.

"What is your name, Lady?" He asked. The girl cleared her throat nervously.

"Liodain, Sire." Her said, her voice quiet but even.

"From Eire, I presume."

"Yes Sire. I was born in Dublin." She said. Evidently she was another Fae too young to remember a time before the explosion of humankind had ravaged the Earth. Even though large portions of Her had been reclaimed, he still pitied elves who had known nothing but man's world and this war.

"How many years have you served, if I may ask?" He said, unable to contain his curiosity.

"I was twenty the year the Golden Army awoke, Sire. I joined the army that year." Liodain said, her eyes back on the ground in front of him. She was younger even than he assumed. Somehow this girl-barely an adult-had joined his army, trained, and fought alongside grown men for more than seventy years while totally escaping his notice.

"Well, Liodain, it is customary for me to grant you a boon for your act of bravery. Tell me: what is it you desire?"

Liodain found his eyes, drawing herself up to her full height, her spine rigid, her jaw set.

"I wish to be a warrior, Sire. For many years I have been a page because no man would teach me the old arts. I wish to fight for my people." She said quietly, but firmly.

The generals behind him started muttering again. He held up his hand and they fell silent.

"Then a warrior you shall be. Tomorrow you will see my armorer, and I will instruct Gwydion-who I believe you've met already-to see to your training." Nuada said.

The girl seemed overcome. She put her right fist on her left shoulder in a salute, bowing, pulling herself together at last.

"Thank you, My Liege." She said, slightly hoarse.

"Thank you, Liodain." He echoed, feeling a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.


End file.
